Freeze Frame
by Bytemite
Summary: One shots, vignettes, character sketches, and drabbles based on Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along-Blog.
1. Laundry Day

**Disclaimer:** I only WISH this world were mine. Credit Joss Whedon, Zack Whedon, Jed Whedon, Maurissa Tancharoen, and the cast.

Hi, everyone. For those of you who are reading Finding Time, don't worry, I'm still working on it, but this idea jumped out and started gnawing on my ankle.

Update: I've decided to use this one-shot as a springboard for an entire collection of Dr. Horrible stories. Sorry if there's any confusion when you click in. For those of you who've read Laundry Day, the next entry is new.

* * *

Laundry Day

Pulling away from the equations on the whiteboard was always an aggravation; he always felt as though he were a mere substitution or evaluation away from an important, meaningful, and real mathematical result. Here on the white board, everything was safe and perfect until the cruel world and random chance decided to blow the carefully conceived notions apart, which was more often and more literal than he and his landlord liked. Granted, the application of his conclusions was exciting, and creating an impossible invention that worked was a moment of pure, undiluted joy (followed by the manic glee over potential uses). Without the ideas, the theories, and the designs, however, without the initial creativity and cunning, his inventions simply wouldn't exist.

Some interruptions he could forgive. Dinner, though generally a bland, lonely affair, was important. Sleep, useless though it seemed, brought with it occasional inspiration, and he had to admit he didn't get near enough rest. His friends, especially Moist, helped keep him grounded, and maintained the delicate balance between genius and insanity that resulted from his reclusive lifestyle. And, of course, if he was going to make these wonders, he had to show them off, which required a certain amount of preening. Like showers. Like laundry.

He hadn't been to the laundromat his usual time this week. The Freeze Ray may have hit a few snags, but he was so close to a breakthrough in quantum mechanics. To hell with the Observer Effect. If electrons from the gold bars at the bank could be jumping into his apartment at any given moment, then it wouldn't take much for him to be able to coax the rest of their respective atoms into joining them en masse. Besides, it wasn't like the bureaucrats would miss them.

As tantalizing as that prize was, though, his laundry basket was reaching a critical mass, to the point he suspected one more sock would act something like a fissile sparkplug. He was currently wearing his only relatively clean clothes, and another night sleeping in them and he probably wouldn't even have that.

Grudgingly, he rose from his armchair from where he'd been glowering at some particularly stubborn variables and removed his labcoat for his alter-ego's subdued hoodie and jeans underneath. With one last check around his dingy apartment for stray clothing, he was well on his way to the Saturday bustle and a foul mood.

He wouldn't mind so much if waiting for the dryers didn't feel like such a monumental waste of time. To keep himself entertained, he had brought along a small device he was programming to give back the quarters the machines kept eating.

Oh, good, the usual Coin Wash crowd was there, and in number. He counted five laundry brats running around and throwing objects he preferred not to identify among the tumbling clothing. Their adult versions were all fighting for space and machines, and after some shrieking lady kicked him off his (which was still total bull, she'd gotten there after him, there was no way it was hers), he consoled himself that at least when cheetos ended up in someone's whites, he could blame the children.

The beeping of his last load of clothes roused him from the stupor he'd fallen into. Finally, done. Eagerly, he peeled himself off the bench by the window, pulled open the dryer…

And saw the most magnificent creature he'd ever seen reflected in the chrome as she walked by.

He just stared at the metal, long after she had moved away, replaying the way her red hair brushed at her neck, the swish of her skirt. At last he caught up to the present, and, realizing he couldn't see her anymore, straightened and looked around furtively. He almost wondered if he hadn't imagined her, but there she was, talking to a little boy reading on top of one of the washers by the back row. Was it just him, or was the whole room brighter?

It occurred to him suddenly that he'd been standing around obliviously for several minutes, and he quickly tossed his underwear back into the dryer. He put in a few more quarters and hoped she hadn't seen him or the red that had crept up into his cheeks.

She was alone at the back, buying soap. Perfect. Now if only his feet would move. "Aren't you done yet?" a creaky voice demanded, and he jumped. Numbly, he shook his head at the old crone who had asked him, and she narrowed her eyes at him before moving away and muttering something uncomplimentary.

Back at the soap vending machine, the radiant girl had been joined by a mother and a screaming toddler. He groaned inwardly. A wasted opportunity. She offered to buy the detergent for the woman, who was struggling to hold her child's hand and dig into her purse at the same time.

"_Say something to her,"_ his mind begged as she asked around politely for a machine that was free. _"What, what can I to talk to her about?"_ he asked himself desperately. For the first time he could recall, he couldn't come up with a single plan. She hopped onto her washer after loading it and pulled out her own book, but she tended to do less reading than she did gazing dreamily off into space, possibly imagining some whirlwind romance.

An incessant noise finally got his attention away from the girl; his dryer had finished again. Another bunch of quarters fixed that, and he went back to watching her.

Why was it beeping again?! She finished folding her last blouse and picked up her basket and he crouched down to feed the insatiable beast more money. He glanced back up as her shadow fell over him on her way to the door. She smiled down at him, and he was frozen as sure as if he'd shot himself with one of his inventions.

"_Get her name, stupid!"_ his brain was screaming, _"Find out when you can see her again!"_ His mouth responded only with what he later imagined was probably a very goofy smile of his own, a direct result of the strangest feeling like he was floating. She walked out, but even this escaped his euphoria, and he happily started retrieving his now burnt underclothes.

He'd be coming back next Saturday. The Trans-matter Ray could wait.


	2. Corroded

Somewhat bitter tasting character sketch. I'll bring some happy in the next ones I have planned. :)

* * *

Corroded

He had become skilled at hiding the bruises; his first and most valued lesson was to never show weakness. Whichever way he bled empty, there would always be someone who would relish the opportunity to _really_ make it hurt.

They didn't follow him today. He locked the deadbolt anyway, just in case, shut the blinds, and he was alone again in a familiar world of bare light bulbs, cold cement, and trashed furniture. This was the one place that didn't even pretend to care. He resented the honesty. If it weren't for the nuisance of hunger, he'd never leave the public library.

He crossed the living room, completely unnoticed as usual, and checked the fridge. Nothing. He cast a glare over his shoulder.

There was a pot boiling on the stove, but that wasn't food. He pulled over a stool and climbed on top of it, wishing he could grow up faster. He did a few quick mental calculations in regards to quantity and took great delight in ruining every last bit of the batch.

The first time, it had all been revenge, it probably always would be, just a bit. Now, though… Now, he had found he was _good_ at math and science. Better than anyone else he knew, better than the teachers when he bothered to go to school. He could use chemistry against his problems, rather than chemistry _becoming_ the problem. Science was his way out.

Someday, he'd get away from this. Someday, this beaker would boil over, and he'd scour away this failed social experiment and all the remnants of oppression with it. Maybe people would have a chance then. People like him.

Every time he slammed the door behind him, Someday seemed closer.


	3. Glue

Glue

The mold was continuing its steady march up the discoloured, faded wallpaper; underneath peeling bits the dry wall was cracking and shifting; the floorboards were scuffed and gouged, dull and missing finish. Moist tiredly took in the sorry state of his apartment.

He'd hoped to find work when he'd moved out here, but no one had wanted to hire him for anything honest. He was quickly learning that the underworld didn't have much interest in his superpower either, and his own misdeeds were slightly too difficult to handle (literally). He slid away from the doorway and wiped away the water his proximity had running down the doorframe; he didn't need that to warp on him.

Somehow, he needed to find a villain who would take him on as a henchman, so that he could get enough evil hours for Union membership; even the pay for minions hired just to make a lair look more impressive was better than petty theft. Then he could afford to move to somewhere better, which was desperately needed. His apartment had been bad when he first rented it, but the months of exposure to humidity were taking their toll. The place was falling apart.

A piece of ceiling fell into the room abruptly. Moist jumped, then turned a long-suffering look upwards.

Another tenant appeared in the hole above him wearing a white lab coat and welding goggles, hair spiked up like straw and blue eyes concerned. "Sorry! That didn't hit you, did it?"

So this wasn't the natural deterioration of the building structure? He'd never seen his upstairs neighbor, and his impression was that the other man was something of a shut-in. There was a shy sort of sincerity in the question, though, and taking in the clothes Moist thought he might have an idea why. Mad scientist. Yeah, that would explain it. He frowned. "Uh. What are you doing?"

"Gluing down my tables in case of an earthquake," his neighbor answered apologetically, holding up some odd sort of gun.

Moist stared. "Glue?"

"Really _strong_ glue," the scientist confirmed. Moist glanced back at the piece of ceiling that had fallen through; it looked kind of melted to him. "Well," the blond amended, "okay, so the chemical formula's not right yet." The other man glowered at the invention, thinking, and began to fiddle with some setting on it. The gun fired glob of… something into the air, which was followed by wide eyes, and melted through Moist's ceiling again. "Oops." With a pained expression, his neighbor turned back to him. "Um. I'll fix that."

Wait. _Mad scientist._ Moist brightened at the revelation the second time around. "I'll help."

Maybe he'd get his evil hours after all.


End file.
